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In Search of Light |
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by Ray Purcell |
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| There is a time at the end of a day when the shadows become long and color becomes precious.�� For those of us who disregard the Earth's rotation away from the Sun, the refractive index of the electromagnetic spectrum of visible light, and the reflective properties of alkali desert in tangential light, then the choicest place to savor the fullest flavor of a Sunset is that rare seam between the Sierra Nevada and the Mono Basin.�� This is a place were one can allow the abandonment of the day and taste the monochrome of dusk like a fine dessert port.�� |
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| Lisa and I live in a 1500 square foot house built in 1914; we share this space with two adult offspring, one cat and two large dogs.�� The house was a working class home when it was built, there is no bedroom suite, people slept in their bedrooms, there are no walk-in-closets, people had work clothes and Sunday clothes.�� Since the house was built little has been done to the basic footprint by its successive inhabitants to accommodate the burgeoning opulence of American Twentieth Century living, except slightly larger closets.�� |
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| I suspect that ten-foot by ten-foot bedrooms are a testament of sorts to pragmatism of the families who have lived here.�� I can't speak for them but for us, simply put, one learns to tread softly and be extremely considerate of others- and we're pretty good at it.�� My wife and my indulgence however, salvation if you like, are short trips away.� Like most people our personal time is confined to weekends, and like most people if we want to conserve precious vacation leave from work it's best to cluster it around a holiday.�� So the challenge is how to do that without running into the most people. |
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| One day in the early summer Lisa had the idea to go to Mono Lake and kayak the shoreline.�� We had done this about five years ago with the kids and had a really great day.�� But this time it was just for us.�� Lisa had the idea to base out of Lee Vining since you can't really get much closer to Mono Lake, and your only about half an hour from Tuolumne Meadows by the Tioga pass road.�� Now I've always considered Lee Vining to be a desperation stop where gas is always over two dollars a gallon, the architectural highlight is the Cal Trans snowplow barn, and food is fried and comes from Mono Cone; boy was I surprised about the food. |
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We left on the 4th of July and planned to use the first day just cruising up Highway 395 looking for some real Slice-of-Americana celebration.�� I wasted as little time as possible passing through the Mojave Desert with it's derelict roadside motels reminiscent of a Twilight Zone episode.�� It was too early for lunch so we passed up the rather yummy patty melts at the Ranch House in Olancha and found nothing to entice us in Lone Pine.�� We considered a stop at the Rock N Rhino in Independence but still felt stuffy from the drive. |
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| By the time we reached Bishop we had rediscovered our appetites and split a turkey sandwich with our fruit smoothies at the Kava Caf�.�� The town was pleasantly quite given the holiday but I suspect the merchants would have preferred otherwise.�� There was a flyer tacked up that advertised a Bar-B-Q at Tom's Place complete with blue grass band, the vision of which held real promise.�� |
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| After an obligatory stop at Wilson's Eastside Sports for last minute provisions and an indulged purchase of a new daypack we headed up to Tom's.�� Just before the turn off the dusty green of the sage covered hills became black and the occasional Ponderosa Pine was smoldering.�� The hills were dotted with fire crews who looked like clusters of marigolds from a distance and were evidently mopping up a fire that had started two days before.�� Fortunately the resort at Tom's Place seemed untouched.�� The air was heavy with smoke but there were signs of partying at the bar.�� We still needed groceries so we decided to hit the Von's in Mammoth Lakes and then come back. |
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| When we arrived in the "Village", the new concept theme promoted by Intermountain West, the new developers of Mammoth Mountain, there was a party atmosphere with banners and bunting.�� We squeezed into a parking space behind the Shell Station and went to explore the Art and Craft Fair set up in front of Foot Loose Sporting Goods.�� The highlights were some beautifully glazed pottery, cloisonn� jewelry, and photography by Claude Fiddler.�� Claude is a local artist and mountaineer who truly has a gift for capturing the ever changing light for which the Sierra is famous; he also composes his photos in the distinctive way that an alpinist sees the mountains. |
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| The day was getting away from us so we sped off to Von's for groceries.�� Further down Main St. the block was closed off with a carnival set up in the street.�� Traffic was totally messed up and parking was grid locked.�� We raced through our shopping to escape the cheek by jowl experience in the market.�� We'd had enough of our fellow man and decided to get out of Dodge rather than stay for the 4th of July parade, especially since we had to check in before 6 pm.�� |
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| I've discovered that the beauty of the Eastside is that there's plenty of room to spread out so mob scenes like Mammoth Lakes are entirely avoidable.�� It was a short drive to Lee Vining and we headed directly to Murphy's Motel.�� We checked in to a spacious, clean, and quite room located in the back and off of 395.�� We had to do some quick research since the Mono Cone across the street was definitely out.�� Among the menus tacked up in the ice room was one for the Tioga Lodge. |
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| We called in a reservation at the lodge's restaurant Me and Manual's, though I felt a little silly about it since nothin seemed crowded except the joints on the mainstreet proper.�� Lisa was asked if we wanted to eat on the porch, and she asked if it was nonsmoking.�� She was told that who ever gets there first sets the rules.�� We drove a short distance north on 395 until we reached a line of small cabins neatly tucked up into the Sage and Rabbit Brush.�� The whole arrangement was out of It Happened One Night, with Claudette Colbert and Clark Gable, except the cabins were covered with green snow roofs and the main buildings looked as though they might have been brought down from the ghost town at Bodie- as it turned out they had, but were now nicely painted and quite pristine. |
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| Though the dining room was quite attractive, and quite empty, we held to the plan to eat on the porch and were seated at a wrought iron table next to a white railing.�� The view over Mono Lake at dusk was expansive and the air was scented with Sage.�� While the traffic passing on the highway was distractingly loud, as the evening progressed toward night the volume significantly diminished.��� |
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| Lisa ordered pork tenderloin; smoke grilled with a cranberry orange confit.�� I had chilled smoked Alpers Trout with grilled asparagus that was tender the length of the spear, and served with a wild rice mix.�� As we sipped our wine in the fading light we imagined what it must have been like before the turn of the century when these same buildings were a stage stop and post office.�� Overcome with the antiquity of the place we wished we had discovered the lodging opportunities before we had committed to Murphy's.�� Nothing is better than getting a fine glow from a good dinner wine and then swaying back to the room. |
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| We returned several days latter for breakfast, before the trip home, and I was ecstatic to find that the waiter actually knew what kind of sausage was served with the eggs and could describe the flavor.�� After eating we spent time talking to Lou Vint, the wife of the husband and wife team who had retired from a contracting career in the Riverside area and have been refurbishing the resort since having purchased it in 1995.�� |
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| Lou chatted with us about the history, which they have thoroughly researched, and the challenges of the restoration of historic structures in the Mono Basin National Scenic Area.�� She and Walter are most proud of the work that has gone into decorating the guest cabins.�� Each is charming and tastefully thematic ranging from the Mountain Man, inspired by explorer Joseph Walker, to the Soiled Dove, who's inspiration goes without saying.�� |
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| The next morning we decided to spend the day in Tuolumne Meadows and started off to look for some pastry and coffee.�� Across the street was the Alpine Bakery.�� The morning was still and cool and as we walked in the door we were greeted by the most glorious of morning smells, fresh bread and coffee.�� |
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| Oddly this bakeries main focus is bread and breakfast goodies occupy a very small case at the end of the counter, almost an after thought.�� There were two or three kinds of Danish and Bear Claws.�� The Bear Claws were lightly glazed and sprinkled with almond shavings; the pastry was airy and flaky with a smooth filling of aromatic almond paste.�� This is the kind of quality that Shat's Bakery in Bishop used to have before they began catering to swarms of SUV driving clones that couldn?t tell good pastry from a Pop Tart. |
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| Feeling quite right after breakfast we headed up Tioga Pass and arrived at the park entrance station before the herd of holiday travelers.� We practically glided past alpine meadows and Red Fir with the windows down, clean crisp air gushing in the openings.�� After parking at Lembert Dome we headed out for Parsons Lodge.�� The Sierra Club built the lodge in 1912 after they had purchased the land from the McCauley Ranch for their famous campouts.�� Edward Taylor Parsons, the names sake for the lodge was in John Muir's words a "mountaineer and faithful defender of national forests and parks" and instrumental in local preservation as well. |
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| Just passed the lodge is a low humble looking log cabin.� Built in the 1800s the cabin is the original ranch house that was used when stock was in high pasture, and it has been lovingly restored.�� The front door was open and I could smell toast.� I cupped my hands and yelled "Good morning Linda, are you and Allen in?"� �Linda and Allen and Volunteers in Parks.�� Linda works in the visitor's center and other jobs, and Allen is a gifted craftsman who does what ever he pleases on maintenance projects about the meadow.�� |
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| I got to know Linda years back through her mom and dad and try to stop in and say hello when I'm in the meadows.�� Lisa and I were welcomed in, and I had to be cautious about a concussion on the low doorframe and roof joists, Lisa had no such problem.�� It's a one room cabin with quilt covered bed in one corner and opposite is a small round dining table that sits next to a wood burning cook stove.�� |
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| As Lisa and I sat on the daybed Linda told us she had recently lost Bob her father, but her mom was feisty a doing well despite the loss.�� We talked about her dad and she told me how he had left notes about the house as reminders to his family about how he wanted to finish his days and who he wanted to get his things.�� Bob was an engaging and wryly witty fellow loved and supported by his family.�� He only struggled from his heart failure toward the very end and with his passing there was no tragedy.�� Too soon we had to say our goodbyes and I promised to stop back in August when Courtney and I plan to climb Mt. Conness. |
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| Lisa and I had planned to head off through the meadows in the general direction of the Glen Aulin High Sierra Camp, one of a number of high camps a comfortable days walk from the meadows.�� We sauntered along enjoying the trail, drinking in the views of the domes and cockscomb peaks, and to do honor to John Muir spent time with his "plant people".�� |
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| We were in no hurry and really had no cares regarding a destination.�� The Tuolumne River seemed to carry us away on it's meander through the meadow and we were soon at the beginning of a series of cataracts and falls that eventually end where the river is absorbed by Old John's very heartbreak, the damned Hetch Hetchy Reservoir. |
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| We hadn't actually planned to stroll the six miles to Glen Aulin, but did.�� Once there we sat together next to a pool at the bottom of a falls and ate a fine mountain lunch of French bread, Alpine Lace cheese, summer sausage, and sweet apricots.�� Great volumes of water smashed into the rocks at the base of the falls fracturing into the fine mists that swirled about us.�� |
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| In the real mountains hours and minutes serve as little purpose as ballet slippers on a scree slope, the pages of the day turn slowly and are best bookmarked by the passage of the Sun.�� So, it was more the length of the shadows that summoned us to begin the trip back.� |
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| Returning to the meadows we passed a succession of hikers predominated by backpackers of all stripes.�� Many clearly planned to stay in the tent cabins at Glen Aulin and were packed light.� All manner of ages, shapes, sizes, and colors were represented and none even vaguely resembled a North Face or Patagonia ad.�� We passed one burly smiling fellow happily striding along with a green duffel bag slung diagonally across his back, which clearly had the outline of canned food and pots straining at the canvas. �� |
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| Of course there were the pack trains lead by wranglers on Horses leading mules laden with passengers topped with crash helmets.�� The packers were emblematic of the old west and settled in their idiom while their clients seemed justifiably self-conscious in the personal protective gear so characteristic of our litigious society.�� One lead rider who had perfected the habiliment as well as the mannerisms of the Man With No Name offered Lisa a relatively verbose yet laconic "howdy maam".�� |
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| We took a break on a broad granite slab that dove seamlessly into the water of the river.�� I pulled out my sketchpad and charcoal and waited for my eye to frame the scene, Lisa stretched out and closed her eyes.�� As her breathing slowed and deepened my hand began to move over the paper in time to the rhythms of line and shading that can at best feebly represent the form of mountain and forest. |
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| Ultimately we returned to the car tired and hungry.�� I considered the Tuolumne Meadows Lodge for dinner but thought it might be too crowded.�� Lisa didn?t seem to care so we started back toward Lee Vining.�� I also thought about sampling the gourmet fare at the Mobile Station.�� No really, Matt AKA "Tioga" Toomey is a bonafied chef.�� He has a kitchen set up in the mini-mart where he and his no-shit Su Chef really pack in a crowd.�� Ultimately we passed on dinner but stopped for lunch the next day when I had a justifiably "Famous Fish taco"; delicate white fish lightly breaded and perfectly crisp covered in diced papaya and peach with a garnish of cilantro.�� |
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| We were headed back down when I got the bug to stop at the Tioga Pass Resort.�� I've been driving past this four-season resort for years.�� The lodgings are usually booked a year in advance and the meals are renowned to satisfy end-of-the-day mountain appetites.�� We had heard that Bob Agard, the previous owner of ten years, had sold out to retire to the cabin he and his wife Darlette had been building in Montana.�� |
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| There is now a coffee shop type arrangement, which used to be the main food service, and a more upscale dinning room located under an awning.�� The furnishings are well Nuevo log, visually bulky and slightly confining given the small dinning space.�� I was intrigued that the kitchen is located just off of the dinning porch where all of the meat dishes are grilled over coals and smell heavenly.�� Of course this may be a turn off to those who mistakenly think that the pointy things on human dentition are for grinding vegetables.�� |
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| We both ordered prime rib and it arrived sizzling on what looked like an armor breastplate laid over a wooden plank that stuck out into the isle and snagged the waitresses apron when she walked by.�� The meat was good but the potato too al dente, all in all an average meal.�� I was floored that my glass of wine was 9 dollars and in the end decided that my dollar inflated in the lower air pressure of high altitude. |
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| We awakened the next day on vacation time though the day was still very young.� The Bakery was calling to us so we got our usual and then went across the street to the coffee shop in the El Mono Motel to get our morning brew.�� After uniting pastry and rich dark roast coffee on the porch of the El Mono we took off to join up with our kayaking guides from Caldera Kayaks.�� We're too new at the sport of paddling to know what we want in a boat, besides it?s nice to be in the company of guides who not only know the waters and the winds but the history of the area.�� The folks at Caldera, Stuart Wilkinson in particular, score high points in all categories, besides they do a nice job of accommodating stronger paddlers as well as the more leisurely boater.���� |
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| We started from Navy Beach at about nine O'clock without a breath of breeze over mirror smooth water that reflected the Sierra from June Mountain past the Dana Plateau to Victoria Peak.�� Paddling out toward a more isolated Tuffa Tower offshore we kept a respectful distance from the Osprey nested there and headed west.�� We played hide and seek with the lake bottom as we paddled over submerged towers of the calcium carbonate that form the Tuffa formations, and glided over plumes of brine shrimp to a beach beyond the estuary of Brush Creek. |
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| The group took a break and Lisa and I looked for pieces of pumice, frothy air filled volcanic rock that would float when lobbed into the lake.�� I was more interested in the large pieces of volcanic glass.��� The obsidian covered the shore among mats of Brine Flies that magically parted around my feet, only errantly even touching my foot; imagine being repulsive to a fly and not even having been on the trail for a week.�� We were all anxious to paddle further and the guides seemed to think we could go a bit more before the afternoon winds came up, winds that commonly gust to 20 knots. |
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| Too soon we had to turn around, but on the return we paddled in and around the forest of Tuffa Towers that cluster near the shore.��� One of the guides pointed out an owl nest and we were astonished at how perfectly the beige and buff of the Tuffa matched the owl's plumage.�� I was enchanted to paddle through the surreal shapes of the towers that resemble fantasy organ pipes, and wondered how the lake would look as the water level rose now that Los Angeles Department of Water and Power was no longer diverting fresh water away from the lake.�� Even though some of these formations would be submerged the lake would provide a healthier habitat for the rich diversity of birds that nest here.�� |
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| As we beached our boats we were reminded of another reason to join a group, at the end of the trip you don't have to carry the boat back to the car or worry about cleaning it.�� It was about one in the afternoon, originally Lisa had offered to belay me for an afternoon of sport climbing in Clarks Canyon but our hands moved sluggishly and our arms felt heavy from paddling.�� After lunch we decided to go back to the meadows and just flake out. |
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| On returning to Tuolumne we wandered out into the meadow and found an isolated spot surrounded by willows where a breeze protected us from the mosquitoes; scudding clouds blew across the Sun and we were wonderfully cool in their shade.�� We stretched out on the granite and I pulled out my pad.�� Shortly I was drifting away in search of the patterns of light and dark that would transform Cathedral Peak into a charcoal sketch. |
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| If you draw, paint, or photograph you can never see though conventional eyes; your mind will forever compose scenes into hue, tint, shade, and perspective.�� Vantages will call out to you to stop, and you will sense the music in the light, rhythm in the form, melody in the shade.�� As the Sun began to set I completed my coda and we started back.�� |
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| We decided to have dinner at the Mono Inn.� We were intrigued that Ansel Adam's family owned the place, and that it was supposed to have an exceptional view of Mono Lake from the dining room.� I was taken by how popular this seemingly out-of-the-way restaurant was.�� However, we were quickly seated and had a spectacular view from our table.�� As I regarded the Mono Basin and the alpin glow on the distant White Mountains the drone of the conversations of the other diners seemed distant in the intimate dinning room.�� |
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| Lisa and I sat comfortably opposite each other in Mission Style chairs with plush leather covered seats.�� A large bay of windows seemed to frame Mono Lake in the meticulous way a photographer might when composing a shot through the viewfinder of a camera; the way Ansel Adams might. |
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| I doubt that there was any bow to fashion and trendiness, or direction from a focus group in the selection of the design elements of Morris and Stickley to decorate this dinning room.�� There is an uncluttered precision and elegance in the Arts and Crafts Style that lends to the seemingly composed view of the lake without distracting from it.�� Selections of the work of Ansel Adams line the room, there are neither too many nor too few of his evocative photos, much like the delicate balance between the d�cor and vista. |
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| As I sipped a Pinot Noir with the fragrance of cherries on a hot summers evening, I noticed that the shadows cast by the setting Sun don't spread out over the desert like a clean sheet lofted over a just changed bed.�� The margin of advancing dusk wanders about the basin undecidedly, as if unsure what ground to claim for the night; the shadows seem to conquer a spot here or there and then as quickly abandon them.�� Then, unexpectedly, the Sun will wrest away the inevitable for a moment and shine through a keyhole between the peaks and clouds; one moment a Tuffa tower will be spotlight, in the next the seemingly established monochrome in the gray scale of lake water will be rent by a splash of aquamarine and then as quickly vanish.�� |
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| After dinner and a dessert of chocolate torte with espresso we worked our way back up stairs toward the car.�� From the top of the stairs, looking down, pleasantly smiling like the gentle and wise patrician was a portrait of Ansel himself with his signature bola tie with it's polished tourmaline agate.�� The influence and memory, if not presence, of Adams spreads across California in geographic memorial; from his names sake wilderness south of Yosemite to this restaurant-cum-gallery whose proprietor is the great mans granddaughter, Sara. |
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| I remember seeing a photograph of Adams some where once, probably set against the Eastern Sierra, and as I recall he's standing behind an enormous box camera, and the whole thing camera and photographer are perched on a platform attached to the roof of a 1950's Chevy station wagon.�� In an elemental way Adams spent his life in search of light and I'm realizing to a certain extent that we all do. |
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| July, 2002 |
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